Wood and wode. Calling.
Cut wire singing the winter winds. Let the barbs dance the fall behind and wander along the dark tall. Pine, they call them. That is not their name — so say the moss; so say the mould. There, across the fallen brown, barefoot.
I’m given of stone, both the black and the red, the grey and the scorned. Lake there, standing, the wilder lands below.
I am pale the bone. Without meat to carry.
Gone wēstengenga — in shadow, of wode, in alone.